Hitchhiking south from Copenhagen, I was picked up by an odd duck – a Danish capitalist hippy. Nice guy.

He was driving the quintessential hippy van, reeking of weed.

This long-haired entrepreneur had created a pretty good business for himself. Every few weeks he’d drive south to Cologne, Germany, load up his microbus with hundreds of posters, drive back and hawk them to tourists in Copenhagen.

The posters were all the same – orphans and kittens with big eyes.

“I tried selling real art, but couldn’t make a living. This is what the tourists really want. I buy them for a dollar in Cologne, sell them for five in Copenhagen. Denmark is all about cuteness. Hans Christian Anderson – all that. I’ve been doing it for seven years now, and I’ve saved a lot of money.”

“Thanks for the ride,” I said. “I’ll go all the way to Cologne, if that’s okay.”

“The reason I picked you up is that I need a driver. I haven’t slept in three days and I’m just too tired.”

“Oh, gee, I’m sorry. I don’t know how to drive a stick shift, and I don’t have a license.”

“Well, then, your job is to grab the wheel if I start to nod off.”

The next eleven hours were nerve-wracking. Every few minutes he’d nod off and the bus would start to drift. I’d grab the wheel, he’d wake with a start, and the bus would swerve sickeningly.

Meanwhile, sleek BMWs were passing us on both sides at 160 mph. There’s no speed limit on the autobahn. My eyes couldn’t leave the rear-view mirror, my teeth wouldn’t stop grinding. It was exhausting – we had several close calls.

When he finally dropped me off, ten hours and 470 miles later, I badly wanted a break from hitching. I decided to catch a train. But first I had to see the legendary Cologne Cathedral.

It was a knockout, but I was so tired I could barely see it.

The train station was just a few blocks away, according to my map. I set off for it, and promptly got lost. I saw a policeman directing traffic. Oh, good, I thought. I can finally put my high school German to use.

“Bitte, wo ist der…wo ist der…” I started.

Crap. I couldn’t remember the German word for train station. People were watching.

“Wo ist der…chooo chooo..?” In desperation I made a gesture like pulling a steam whistle cord. There was laughter.

The officer was  a little snotty.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to speak English? The train station is three blocks that way, on the right.”

I set off again, and soon was lost again. At a crowded corner I stepped off the sidewalk to get around the crowd and take a look down the side street.

Someone grabbed my backpack and gave a sharp tug. Stumbling backward, I tripped on the curb and nearly fell. I angrily turned, fists out, ready to pummel whoever’d laid their hands on me.

It was little old German lady, no more than five feet tall. At least eighty years old.

“Nein!” she barked at me. “You are setting a bad example for the children!”

She gestured at the gutter and made it clear that, in Germany, one doesn’t step off the sidewalk. One follows the rules. Or else.

It is my usual policy to avoid punching old women in foreign countries, so I retreated toward the bahnhof. I’m not sure, but I may been muttering “nazi bitch…” under my breath.